


How Blaine Anderson Was Created

by Fraulein



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Angst, Gay Bashing, Gen, M/M, Past Violence, ex-mafia family Blaine!, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fraulein/pseuds/Fraulein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up from a coma only to be told that you were dead was a bit disconcerting. A look into how Blaine came to be so mature and confident in himself and yet so insecure in his personal relationships. And why is such a nice calm young man so angry and overly emotional at times?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor rewrites in the first 4 chapters are included here from the previous postings over at FF.net and Scarves & Coffee. New chapters forthcoming.

Chapter 1

There was a boy at the end of the hall in the ICU that lay alone in his bed for two weeks before he started to show signs of coming out of his coma. The swelling in his brain receded but he remained heavily drugged with oxygen support for another three weeks as his body fought off kidney and lung infections and his internal injuries began to mend. By the end of the sixth week his twenty-seven broken bones were healing well as was the deep bruising covering much of his body. Going into the seventh week of his stay, even though he was still in a cervical collar, an assessment of his mental state needed to be made, to further determine his treatment plan. 

The young man had drifted in and out of awareness for weeks while heavily medicated in part due to the severity of his injuries but also due to the acute distress he exhibited each time he became alert enough to take in his surroundings. When staff attempted to communicate with him, he did not acknowledge his name and became frantic over his temporary inability to speak. As he became alert more often, they eventually had to secure the young man to his bed to protect him from injuring himself further. It was hoped that now with the boy's jaw no longer wired shut, his cheekbones, jaw and nose nearly healed and the bandages and stitches that had crossed the side of his skull removed, he would be calmer when he regained consciousness. 

It took almost a full forty-eight hours for the young man to push his way to full consciousness again. It was his ankles and knees pulling at his bindings that caught the nurse's attention, stationed just outside his room. She approached him carefully, as if he were a skittish animal, telling him softly as she gently grasped his hand, “You're ok, sweetie. You're ok. You were hurt. I'm Janet, one of the nurses that have been looking after you.” 

He looked up at her worriedly as he continued to feebly pull at his restraints, his forehead puckering in confusion and distress. 

She shushed him, explaining, “They're for your own good, Hon. You kept ripping out your IV and stitches. We needed you to stop moving around so much before you reinjured yourself. But it's ok. It's just temporary - you're healing now.”

The young man stared up at her, worry and confusion clearly showing on his face. He glanced around quickly, taking in the medical equipment, the fast beeping machine next to him and the large glass windows. Looking back at her he tilted his head slightly as if to assess the validity of what she was telling him. 

Liking the clarity she was seeing in his eyes the nurse squeezed his hand again and exclaimed, “I bet you’re thirsty. Would you like some ice chips?”

She held eye contact and waited patiently for a response. The boy relaxed slightly back into his hospital bed and breathed out a quiet, “Yeah.” The nurse smiled brightly at him and said, “I'll be right back!” and bustled out the door.

Upon her return she found him testing each of his restraints and he scowled at her as she told him, “I'm sorry, they can't be removed until the doctor sees you. The good news is I paged him, so he should be here in just a few minutes. Now, why don't we see about getting some ice chips into you, hm?”

He dutifully sucked on the ice chips she slipped between his lips and stopped struggling against his bindings. The young man watched her, with subtle distrust that she sensed, but chose to ignore. Instead, the nurse was attentive, slipping him an ice chip every few moments while she held one of his hands and brightly chatted about what a sunny day it was and how maybe later they could sit him up so he could see out the window. 

When the doctor finally arrived he had his head bent over a clipboard and asked without looking up, “So has he said anything?”

“No.. but-” the nurse started.

“I didn't want to be paged unless he was completely conscious and was interacting with his environment,” the young doctor said with a tired sigh as he turned back toward the doorway.

“Wow. Nice...bedside...manner,” fell haltingly into the recycled hospital air. 

The nurse swung her head back to her young charge with a surprised smile and a hopeful gleam in her eye. He gave her a halfhearted smirk before glancing back to the doctor who was slowly turning around to face them.

“I see,” the doctor said, clearing his throat and slouching back over his clipboard. He had a pensive expression on his face as he walked closer and made eye contact with the small young man. He took note of the cautious expression being directed his way and asked in a neutral voice, “So, can you tell me where you are?”

“Hospital. ICU?” was the hesitant reply.

“Do you know how you came to be here?”

“Ambulance,” the kid said with a ghost of a smile. “But...um, I'm guessing... accident? I – I don't remember,” he added, a bit unsure of himself.

The doctor nodded and wrote some notes on his clipboard. When he looked back he very carefully and slowly asked in a measured tone, “Can you tell me anything about what you remember before you woke up here?”

The young man stiffened and his eyes clouded. The nurse covertly squeezed the hand she was still holding and was about to offer him some more ice chips when the doctor waved her off. He approached the bed further and stood directly over the boy, watching him carefully. 

“Does anything come to mind?” he asked, taking a gentle approach. “Do you know what year it is?” 

The boy gasped then, having inadvertently been holding his breath during his initial distress over the questions. He breathed out and said, “2007? I'm – I'm pretty sure. Depending on how long I've been out.”

He glanced over at the nurse still holding his hand and earnestly asked, “Did Obama win?”

She laughed with surprise and relief, and fed him another ice chip, saying, “Yes!”

The doctor looked back and forth between the two of them and wrote a few more notes down on his clipboard before visually assessing the child before him. The young man was beginning to look exhausted. 

But still alert enough to want some answers, he asked, “Hey, what happened to me? I hurt. Like - everywhere. And can you let me go?” he asked, weakly pulling at his restraints.

The trepidation mixed with hope pouring from the exhausted boy made the decision for the doctor. After a quick silent conversation with the nurse holding his hand, the doctor put down his clipboard and began to unbuckle the boy's restraints, saying, “As long as you stay in this bed, don't move too much and do what the nurses tell you, I don't see why you can't be released.”

“Um, yeah. Not really a problem,” the kid huffed with a bit of a laugh, only to gasp out when he tried to lift his arms. “Oh! Wow. That went up the back of my neck.”

“Yes. The primary reason you should resist moving too much. Your neck and spinal column were severely bruised. So, you're wearing a cervical collar to immobilize your neck. Now, I can give you an overview of your injuries, but I’m just the attending for the evening. Your primary will be in tomorrow if you have specific questions.”

“Yeah, ok. I get it. You can give me an over view,” the boy said as he shut his eyes, looking completely drained. 

“We can do this tomorrow if you'd rather,” the doctor offered. 

“No, I'd just rather know,” the young man said tiredly, but with conviction.

Conferring first with his clipboard the doctor began to rattle off, “You arrived with multiple broken ribs, a punctured lung, ruptured spleen and bruised kidneys and other severe deep tissue bruising. You sustained a skull fracture and bruising to your brain. Your jaw, nose and cheekbones were also broken. Your spinal cord and neck also experienced significant bruising, but no fractures. And, obviously, multiple broken bones to your hands, wrists and arm. You've had six surgeries since you arrived here a little over six weeks ago. It appears your injuries occurred two weeks before your arrival. You were transferred after you were stabilized.”

“Man,” the kid breathed out mournfully. “They really messed me up.”

“Yes, I think that about sums it up,” the doctor agreed with a quiet sigh. 

Observing that the boy's complexion had begun to take on an ashen pallor he asked, “How is your pain?” as he reached down to check the boy's pulse at his elbow – it being the only assessable location he could use. 

“Oh, you know,” the kid breathed out with a pant. Adding with a short laugh. “Longer you talk - worse it gets. You sure it's not you Doc?” 

“Tell you what, we'll pick up this conversation tomorrow after you've gotten some rest, ok?” the doctor offered.

“Yeah, sure,” the kid said, already drifting away.


	2. Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up dead was disconcerting to say the least...

Drugs. Really good drugs were his salvation. Drugs and sleep. They wouldn't give him whatever it was that had knocked him out before, but whatever he was getting now, was still pretty good. He slept, waking only when nurses forced him into consciousness with their nagging, cheerful banter. Someone was always taking his vitals, or making him sit up to eat or worse, giving him a sponge bath. He kept his peace as doctors stopped in to poke this, or probe that and ask him questions that he might or might not know the answers too. He was cautious with what he said and offered no resistance when they forced him into a wheelchair for daily tours up and down the hall.

But mostly, he slept, surrendering to the relief the drugs offered, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the quiet reprieve he was experiencing would come to an end.

Waking up after being in a coma only to be told that you were dead was a bit disconcerting. But he hadn't been surprised. Not really. After all, it had been family that had put him in the coma in the first place. He was just lucky he had woken up at all. The attorney that strolled in one morning about a week after he fully gained consciousness was his first and only visitor and laid out it clearly. 

They had had a funeral. It had been open casket, with his body actually laying in state. There were lots of pictures. A paralyzing chill crept over him as he looked at himself in a silver satin-lined casket wearing a black suit, his face oddly swollen and bruised tinged under pale pasty makeup. 

He didn't really hear anything that was said after a picture of his mother turned up. She was leaning over his casket, grasping its edge, creasing the silver satin lining with the effort to hold herself up as she wept. He reached out to brush over her image, trying to touch her, to offer comfort. It was this image that twisted something deep inside him and that made him truly understand. He, Dominick DiNapoli, youngest son of Vincent DiNapoli, the head of the Genovese crime family, was dead. 

He wasn't sure how long the attorney sat there with him that day, patiently waiting for him to come back. He was vaguely aware of nurses coming and going, doing whatever it was they needed to do. Gradually, his mind cleared and random thoughts filtered through. How had they done it? And why? He had no illusions. His father was more than capable of having him killed. Why not just kill him and be done with it? He knew his brothers would have handled the details, followed orders and kept yet another secret within the family. If they wanted him dead, why bother to fake it? Why keep him alive? Who would benefit? 

Finally, at some point during the last day and first day of his life he asked, “What happens now?”

The attorney nodded solemnly and handed him a vanilla folder, saying, “Meet Blaine Anderson.”

He hadn't had a choice as to his new name and he knew enough not to ask. He quietly signed a few papers the man handed him and nodded at the right places as his future was laid out. Blaine was to remain in the hospital until he was ready to be moved to a private rehabilitation center where his expected stay was to last many months considering the severity of his injuries. When Blaine left the rehabilitation center he would be repeating his freshman year at a boys’ preparatory school that had yet to be chosen. Since it was likely that his rehabilitation would be completed during the coming summer, he was told to be prepared to attend some summer camps until classes started at his new school.

The attorney had spoken to Blaine in a careful, neutral manner and then sat quietly, clearly expecting some sort of reaction. Eventually, when none came he rose and perched himself on Blaine's bed, shaking the boy out of his thoughts with the surprise of having someone sitting so close. 

“Blaine,” he said emphasizing the name, “I need you to understand that I'm your lawyer.”

“No matter who pays me, I represent you and your best interests. Whatever you say to me stays with me. It's called attorney-client privilege. You are my client,” the man enunciated each word forcefully, seeming to will Blaine to respond and understand. 

“You're my lawyer?” Blaine huffed out with a bit of wonder and sarcasm, obviously questioning why he would need one. 

“Yes. I am,” he confirmed. Adding a bit hesitantly, “I know there is nothing I can say that can make any of this... ok….” 

Blaine snorted softly, surprised that the unexpected acknowledgment of how fucked up his life was, was causing tears to seep into his eyes. 

“I think you and I both know given the circumstances of how you were injured, it's a miracle that you're even alive. And, given the parties and societal expectations involved and the options available to them, I can't help but believe that this is the best solution for you,” the attorney continued. 

Blaine gasped out a laugh, before he was trying to breathe through the pain it had caused him. “Societal expectations?! Ah, yeah. A DiNapoli can't be queer, it would destroy the family!” his voice pitching a bit hysterically at the end of his outburst. 

The lawyer acquiesced with a slight nod, watching for any other reaction before offering, “If you want to ask some questions, I'll tell you what I can.”

Blaine sat silently looking down at the casts on his hands, at the white hospital blanket that was pulled up to his chest, that covered so many scars. His pain medication had been wearing off so he was starting to feel the deep ache within and across his body; but he was glad because while his head throbbed at least he was thinking clearly. He had been tilted upward so when he finally raised his eyes to fully look at the man that had been sitting with him for the better part of the day, he was startled by how close he was. 

His attorney was clad in an expensive wool suit. He was a few years younger than his father; in his forties maybe, but where his father was dark and commanding, the man before him was rather beige and subdued. Nothing remarkable stood out about him from his thinning gray-brown hair to his carefully held neutral expression. 

His somberness was expected, but the compassion and concern emanating from him took Blaine by surprise. They pierced through the swirl of confusion he had been trapped in since he woke. For just a moment everything stilled and he felt like he could finally breathe. It gave him the courage to ask the questions that were pressing in on him, trusting he'd get some honest answers. 

“Is my mother-? Does she - ?” Blaine croaked out a whisper. 

“She's fine,” the attorney answered quickly. “She believes you are dead. That you were killed trying to stop a gay bashing of two other boys.” He added with a shade of admiration in his voice, “She's instigated quite a campaign. Demanding public justice, instead of keeping it within the family. She's been very vocal publicly about tolerance and anti-bullying.”

Blaine eyes flew back up at the man in front of him, clearly surprised, not sure what to ask but clearly wanting to know more about what he had just said. 

“Your father has allowed it,” the lawyer added, a trace of amusement slipping through his careful mask. “When asked, he's emphasized that you were defending others. Your cousins were arrested and have been charged with homicide, for your death and aggravated assault for beating of the other two. They also face hate crime charges, due to the nature of the attack, but whether those charges will stick, I don't know.” 

“He emphasizes I was defending others?” Blaine quietly repeated with sarcasm. “He just wanted to make sure that it was clear to everyone not in the know that his son isn’t - wasn't gay! Bet that's playing out great in the news! Mom's out campaigning against bullying and the family is now tolerant of alternative lifestyles?” 

Blaine gasped with an aborted laugh, tears once again threatening to fall. He shook with silent laughter, his breath coming in short painful pants as his emotions overwhelmed him. The mixture of typical family hypocrisy, pride in his mother and amusement over how uncomfortable his father had to be, with how things had to be playing in the media simply left him feeling overwrought. 

The attorney didn't respond to his outburst, not that Blaine expected him to. They both knew there was nothing either of them could do. Instead, the man poured him a glass of water and calmly waited for Blaine to compose himself. 

Finally, the young man gasped out with a broken whisper, “Why? Why would he -” 

His lawyer took his time answering, finally offering, “If I were to guess, I would say that he loves you and your mother very much.”

Blaine's eyes flashed up in surprise to meet the man's sincere gaze, a few tears finally escaping down the side of his face as he looked at the man that was destroying and rebuilding his world with his every word. 

“Maybe he understood that this was an opportunity,” the attorney proposed. 

“This was a way to get you out. And, to protect your mother,” he continued thoughtfully. 

“She will never know - never have to witness what would have happened when you got older. In its way it was a discrete way to handle a delicate situation that could have destroyed both of his families.” 

Blaine pushed out a breathy laugh, followed by a wince, “Yeah. He got rid of me before the family forced him to or they took matters into their own hands, which uh...they kind of did.” 

With nothing to add, the attorney got up and sat in the chair he had occupied for most of the day. “I'm sure you know it would be in your best interests to never contact anyone from your past, or to say anything, to anyone about any of this – ever.” 

“The fewer people who know that you're still alive increases the chance that you will continue to stay alive. There are many within the family and without that could use proof of your continued existence, as well as your death, in their favor.”

“Right now, your father is comfortable with the number of people who know you are alive. Let’s keep it that way,” the attorney emphasized, waiting for Blaine to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. 

The attorney paused, collecting a few items from his briefcase before adding, “I have to say I was relieved to learn that you were discrete enough not to ask any unfortunate questions when you woke earlier this week.”

“Yeah, Well,” Blaine huffed in annoyance, “Every time I came around I got drugged out of my skull for trying to argue with them. This time I wasn't as confused, so I kept my mouth shut.”

Blaine leveled a dark look at his attorney, asking, “Do you know how fucked up it is to have everyone around you calling you by a name that isn't yours and not being able to tell them because your mouth is wired shut?”

When the attorney didn't respond, Blaine offered in a more accepting tone, “I...get it now,” as he looked down at his hands, absently playing with the edge of a sheet. “It's just...no one was here and I was so out of it.”

There was little that could be said so the attorney said nothing, waiting the boy out as he had the entire day. Once Blaine glanced over at him and began to fidget just a bit in his bed the man knew the boy was ready to move on. Sitting forward he held up a folder, “For now - when asked about your family you are to say your parents have passed and that a distant uncle is your guardian. That should keep most questions at bay. 

“Your story has been back filled sufficiently that even the IRS couldn’t find out who you really are, unless you tell someone. In essence, Dominick DiNapoli is dead,” the attorney said with finality, making eye contact with Blaine at the end, to be sure he understood. 

He began to place the files and pictures he had used during his visit, into his briefcase, readying himself to leave. He moved forward, handing Blaine a new wallet, saying, “Social Security card, credit card, my card and everything else you'll need is in there. Don't loose it. Read the news clippings about your parent’s deaths, get to know your school history.”

Placing his briefcase at the foot of the bed the attorney turned to Blaine smiling slightly and added, “Don't go nuts spending money, or I'll have to put you on an allowance. But go ahead and get yourself what you need. Clothes, computer, video games – whatever it is a kid your age needs. Ok?”

“I'll check in with you now and then to see how you're doing. If you need anything text or call me and I'll see what I can do.”

Blaine looked at the man who had essentially killed him, but also brought him back to life within the span of a day. 

Not knowing what to say, Blaine numbly nodded. 

“Take care of yourself, Blaine,” the man said, as he stepped closer to gently squeeze Blaine's forearm reassuringly. He offered one last semi-forced smile in acknowledgment and walked out of Blaine's hospital room. 

With the dull thump of the door closing Blaine blinked a few times and looked around. It had gotten dark outside during his attorney's visit and he had to wonder just how long the man had been there. His dinner tray was sitting off to the side, clearly cold and long forgotten but he didn't really care. For the first time in over a year Blaine didn't feel on jagged edge, cut off from everything and everyone. Nothing was anywhere near to OK. And, it probably wouldn't be for a long time. But there was the potential that it would be.


	3. Meet Blaine Anderson

It was about a week after the boy regained conscious that he greeted Dr. Erikson with a sullen expression that bespoke of poorly hidden anguish and quietly said the name, “Blaine Anderson.”

It was the right name. But the young man's sudden emotional shift from cautious but friendly to nervous and closed off brought the doctor up short. He didn't know what was going on but the teenager before him was not the same one that he had been speaking with for the past week. He knew from the boy's case file he hadn't had things easy, but the intensity of the pain that greeted him seemed out of line with what the doctor knew. 

With a slight nod in acknowledgment, he calmly pulled up his usual chair, crossed his legs, propped his clipboard on his knee, folded his hands in his lap and as calmly as possible inquired, “You remembered?”

Blaine had been watching him carefully since he walked in and held his gaze for another moment before looking down and away with a scowl, answering, “Yeah.”

“So what brought it back?” the doctor prompted, when the boy didn't elaborate. Erikson watched him glance around the room as he tried to cross his arms, only to huff out a hiss in irritation at the pain and laid them back at his sides. Blaine struggled with his composure for a moment, uncertainty, sorrow and shame flickering across his face. His eyes teared up before he got himself under control and settled on pained resignation and gave his version of a shrug while being virtually immobilized in a bed and avoided making eye contact.

“Was it your visitor yesterday that brought it back?” the doctor asked, sensing that this at least could address some of the enigma before him. 

“Uh, yeah,” Blaine replied, with little conviction. 

“I stopped by yesterday to speak with you but was told you had a visitor so decided not to interrupt. I hope the visit went well,” the doctor offered up to see where the boy would take it.

When he just received a dark glance and clenched jaw in response, he tried again, “So? Who was it that stopped by?”

“Attorney,” was the teenager's curt reply.

“Attorney? Oh. Well. Did you know him well? Was seeing him what caused you to remember?” 

“Yeah,” the young man breathed out sadly, looking down again at his hands and then back toward the window.

“So what else have you remembered? Usually other memories come back when things like names start falling into place,” the doctor pushed.

Blaine continued to stare out the window with his head tilted as far away from the doctor as possible while in his neck brace, obviously uncomfortable with the questions. They sat there in silence for a while, the doctor not ready to push further, hoping the young man would continue in his own time.

“My parents are dead,” Blaine said, finally, looking back down at his lap and glancing quickly up and then away from the doctor. His voice cracking as he added, “Car accident.”

The doctor resisted the urge to offer some form of verbal comfort per societal norms, not wanting to distract from what the boy needed to say. 

After a moment Blaine looked back out the window and continued, “My great-uncle is in a nursing home in FL. That's why there hasn't been anyone here. He's the only family.”

“I see,” the doctor said slowly, trying to get a gauge on the boy's emotional distress. 

“Did you remember all of this on your own or did your attorney tell you,” the doctor asked, watching Blaine fidget in his bed, only succeeding in getting his casts caught up in his sheets and blanket. 

“I – I remembered some,” Blaine stammered, as if to protest. 

“He told me about the nursing home. I guess once he heard from you guys that I was finally awake he decided to clue me in on a few things,” Blaine said, with a touch of scorn. 

It wasn't just the tone of Blaine's voice that set the doctor on edge. He didn't like the implication that the attorney had conveyed more unwelcome news then of what the doctor was aware. But, the level of emotional distress the young man was displaying over his sudden recognition of his parents deaths did fit with being overwhelmed with memories returning and could explain his apparent turmoil.

“Well... You now know a bit more about yourself,” the doctor began. “Did anything else come back to you, memories of school or of your childhood or your parents?

It was with a sad, pinched face the young man tried again to shift away from the doctor, forgetting again he was almost completely immobilized in his bed. Blaine's fidgeting inevitably led him to freeze again in pain and cause his eyes to tear up. He took a couple of long slow breaths to get himself back under control before saying with a resigned sigh, “Uh. Yeah. I think just about everything has come back.”

“Like what?” 

Blaine shot him a sharp, annoyed glare clearly not happy with the doctor's insistent questions but calmed a bit as he looked down at his splintered fingers and casts. He made eye contact for just a moment before saying, “My mother taught me how to play the piano – when I was 4. I've been taking lessons since.” 

“Are you worried you won't be able to play again?”

“Yeah...I - Yeah. I guess. I mean – I know I've had a few surgeries and physical therapy will help. But...” Blaine said, lifting one of his splintered fingers and wrapped hands slightly to emphasis his incapacity. 

“What else? Did you remember anything about school or the rest of your family?” the doctor asked, knowing they still hadn't reached whatever it was that had caused such a radical change within the young man.

Still struggling but more willing to answer some questions now that he had begun, Blaine answered, “Yeah. I remember --- uh, friends, classes, teachers – all that stuff. It seems like that's all there.”

And... My dad,” he added after moment. He swallowed thickly before saying, “he..he had just gotten this old beat up car. He had just started to work on it.. you know, before...”

As much as the doctor wanted to wrap up their session, the kid's fluctuating emotions made him push for more. Certain some of the behavior he was witnessing stemmed from the young man's attack he carefully said, “You haven't mentioned it, but with everything you've remembered, has anything surrounding how you came to be here come back to you?”

The doctor was disturbed by the fear and resignation that swiftly crossed Blaine's face as he nervously looked around the room and then down and away. Again he tried to fidget, only to give up and lay there looking out the window dejectedly. While the young man had been resistant through much of their interview, this new intensity of emotion was surprising. 

“What is it?” he asked quietly and then waited, hoping the young man trusted him enough to tell him the truth. 

It took some time, but eventually Blaine, shifted just a little, back in the doctor's direction and with a cautious glance up to him. He began, “I don't remember – not really. I mean, I know it was night and my cou.... there were some guys....and...they didn't like that I was – am.” 

“It was because I'm gay,” he breathed out in a quiet rush. He glanced back at the doctor, taking in his composed expression and then snorted quietly, “But you knew that.”

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed with a nod. “Given your injuries and the initial report I read, it seems to be the logical conclusion.”

Blaine didn't respond but seemed to somehow shrink further into himself at the mention of a police report. 

“Blaine, being gay is nothing to be ashamed of. Neither is being bullied. You need to understand that. It's ignorance and prejudice and ridiculous school policies that caused this. You were not at fault here – in anyway,” the doctor said insistently, watching to see how Blaine would respond.

“Yeah. I...I know. But...they were fam.... friends? I knew they didn't like...me...but I never thought they'd...do this. You know?” Blaine said in quiet disbelief before quickly glancing up, making eye contact and then relaxing minutely, as he saw the doctor's understanding. 

They sat in silence for a short time. The doctor trying to get a handle on what was going on with the boy in front of him. As much as he wanted to wrap things up he couldn't shake the feeling that the pieces of the puzzle before him were not fitting together. On their face, they did. It was the physical cues that manifested throughout their interview that bothered him. 

It took the doctor a moment to process that, once he realized it. He mentally reviewed their session and wished he had thought to videotape it. He had taken note of how Blaine tried to avoid his questions by looking away and initially chalked them up to painful memories he didn't want to face. But traumatized as he was by his memories and injuries, one would expect all of Blaine's answers to be truthful. Yet, throughout the interview his physical ques said otherwise. Factoring in Blaine's comment about his attorney cluing him in, the doctor was very uncomfortable with what he was piecing together. 

He mentally revisited the beginning of their session and it struck him, that for someone stating their name, or in essence introducing themselves, Blaine had lacked conviction. Nor had there been any of the enthusiasm the doctor had come to expect of patients who recovered their identity. A person's name was an essential part of them that inevitably was celebrated when it was recovered. The doctor glanced up sharply at this thought to look at the young man lying before him. 

Blaine was again looking out the window but this time with an unguarded, grief filled expression. He was clearly exhausted. He was small for his age and appeared all the more diminutive with the neck brace and the casts on his hands. But the doctor also noted how the young man almost seemed to have shrunk into himself since they had last spoken. Something had happened during the attorney's visit that had taken a beat up young man with a good nature and twisted him into the destroyed child lying before him.

As the doctor thought about the young man's medical treatment over the previous two months, his sense of disquiet began to build. Blaine was an unusual client, even for their facility. But, considering the severity of his injuries and lack of family, it made sense that he had been placed in a facility that specialized in providing the extra attention the very wealthy could afford when seeking medical treatment. That they also had an exceptional treatment center for trauma survivors only reinforced the decision that he be placed with them. 

But, the doctor kept circling back the utter desolation that gripped the boy now that hadn't been there during their past sessions. Previously, he had been cautious perhaps, but there had been some life, some spark in him still. 

It was this, coupled with the boy's apathy at the beginning of their meeting that brought the doctor to a disturbing conclusion. Either the teenager still didn't have his memory back and was faking it, or he was well aware Blaine Anderson was not his name, and was still trying to reconcile himself with accepting it. 

Instinctively the doctor knew Blaine Anderson was not the boy's name. The memories the boy shared about his parents rang true. As did his mourning for them. He clearly believed they were gone and his pain was fresh and raw, as if he had only just learned of, or remembered, their passing. It was the kid's claiming his name that didn't feel real. 

But if this were the case, the medical staff had been using the wrong name since the boy had arrived. Suddenly, all the kid's confusion and distress earlier in his treatment was much more understandable. Blaine's incoherent protests had been interpreted as confusion and distress due to his extensive facial injuries and wired jaw. When he had become more aggressive in his protests and tried to physically resist, they had strapped him down and knocked him out. It hadn't occurred to anyone that he had been trying to communicate that something more profound was wrong – like they were using the incorrect name. 

It was no wonder they had needed to drug the teenager to keep him under control. He couldn't imagine the confusion the boy must have felt every time he regained consciousness. Nor could the doctor figure out why Blaine hadn't said something during the last week when he finally had the opportunity. He couldn't imagine the boy faking his amnesia for an entire week, nor did it fit with sudden obvious distress he showed over the loss of his family. But what possible reason could there be for a fourteen year old to need a new identity?


	4. Reason For Being

Blaine didn't notice at first that he had a visitor. He was trying to stay inside of his hard earned, just this side of consciousness, daze. Physical therapy had been excruciating. Talking with the doc hadn't been much better. He hurt everywhere and strove to reach the only sure escape he had, sleep. 

He blamed the doc for cutting down his pain medication. As the doc explained it, he wasn't adverse to giving Blaine something for his constant headache and muscle fatigue. But he also wanted Blaine to be more than semi-alert, so he could begin coping with his loss and trauma. Which Blaine definitely was not on board with. 

It bothered him that some of his suffering might be his own fault. Blaine couldn't begin to explain it and no one had a clear explanation for it beyond saying it was just a symptom of the trauma he was recovering from; but nothing he ate would stay down. It was as if his stomach had taken on a life of its own, rebelling at the slightest provocation. 

Initially, he just hadn't had much of an appetite, so ate sparingly. But gradually, more often than not his stomach would begin heaving and he would end up spending the rest of the day recovering from the muscle spasms and aching ribs. It was an exhausting process. Usually ending only when something was slipped into his IV sufficiently knocking him out for the next few hours. 

It got to the point that Blaine got nauseous just seeing a meal tray. No matter what the cafeteria sent up nothing appealed. It was all he could do to try to swallow a few bites, much less try to misdirect his endless hosts of nurses enough to convince them that he had eaten something. 

Eventually, someone would call him out on not having eaten or he would go too many meals of repeated upchucking and they'd give him something that was supposed to help his nausea. For a few days, he'd feel better and the carefully chosen tidbits of food his caretakers provided would stay down. Blaine would get some real rest, his stomach satisfied, would no longer try to claw its way out of his body and the medical staff would begin to relax. 

But, it never lasted. The rest and food would give Blaine a few days break before the cycle would begin all over again. He had gotten to the point that he simply refused to try to eat explaining that the pain and exertion he went through every time he spent the day dry heaving just wasn't worth it. 

The doc tried to get him to talk about his feelings. His nurses mothered him endlessly. Even his new physical therapists were relentless in bringing him special shakes and snacks to tempt his appetite. 

And, all Blaine really wanted was to be left alone to sleep. Which no one seemed to understand, or let him do. 

So when his visitor arrived Blaine didn't really care. The only people who were ever in his room were staff, so he honestly didn't consider their hovering on the periphery of his awareness noteworthy. He was determined to stay just where he was, hoping unconsciousness wasn't too far away. Unfortunately, a nurse came in, injected something into his IV, raised his bed and Blaine quickly felt a rush of alertness surge through his body. He also became cognizant of a person sitting quietly next to him in his visitor's chair. 

The somber attorney that had visited him four weeks earlier had returned. He looked more harried than he had during his last visit, which mildly peaked Blaine's curiosity. They stared at one another for a long minute before Blaine finally cracked and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Something I'd really rather not be doing,” was the attorney's ubiquitous reply. 

Answering Blaine's inquiring expression, he explained, “Your medical reports aren't good. And, they need to improve immediately. Unless you want to end up getting transferred to a psych hospital for an eating disorder, you need to get a handle on yourself.”

At Blaine's gaping protest, the attorney added, “I'm telling you this for your own good. If you get transferred into a psych ward at your age...” 

He continued with a regretful shake of his head, “I don't see you ever getting out in your teen years... maybe not later either. You'll be drugged and maybe you'll get some treatment but you'll never become the person you could be.”

He stopped to massage his forehead, clearly unhappy with having to provide this harsh assessment. 

“Institutionalization was one of the proposals on the table when I was brought into the discussion on how to deal with…your situation. I've been able to keep it off, but unless things change, the medical staff here will make some recommendations that will be embraced as the best possible solution to a problem that shouldn't even exist.”

Shaken out of the apathy that had overtaken him during the past month, Blaine sputtered, “I...What?” Too stunned to even begin to know how to respond to what he had just heard.

“To be clear, your father has never liked the idea,” the attorney said, holding up his hand to forestall Blaine from thinking otherwise.

“The only reason I'm handling any of this is because in an emergency I gave him a solution that he could live with.” Adding with a tone of a confession, “And probably because I'm the only attorney he has from the neighborhood.”

At Blaine's obvious disbelief at this revelation, the man offered a slightly defensive explanation, “I grew up two houses down from your father. He was a few years ahead of me in school. So we were never friends, but we...shared a few things growing up. And, I owe him. I think he knows he can trust me. At least as far as your father trusts anyone.”

“And,” the attorney continued solemnly, “I'm aware on a much more personal level than many of his advisors of what the cost will be to everyone involved if any of this were to come out. I think, that probably weighed heavily in my favor when he chose to listen to me.”

“So wait, you're his attorney? I thought you were my attorney,” Blaine asked clearly agitated by this new piece of information. 

“I'm his tax attorney. I handle his personal business taxes and manage your family’s trust. Usually, I'm able to oversee everything from my office here in Chicago. We both prefer to keep the family and his personal businesses separate,” the man detailed in a matter-of-fact manner. 

“So where do I fit in?” Blaine asked carefully.

“You fit in to a blind trust no one but a few select people will ever be aware of. Of which, I'm the administrator. Essentially, you're my ward since your great uncle in Florida doesn't really exist, now does he?” his attorney replied. 

When the boy didn't show any evidence of following up with the type of questions he expected, the man sat forward with an air of urgency saying, “Blaine, I need you to understand something. I am not the only one who has your father's ear. There are others advising him. Others who wanted to finish what your cousins started and make your death appear to be a hit.”

Visibly unhappy with what he felt he needed to convey, the man continued. “It would have kept with tradition and showed the other families and anyone within the Genovese family that might have needed a reminder, that Vincent DiNapoli is one tough son-of-a-bitch. That he'd rather his own son be dead than gay, and that he tolerates no weaknesses within the ranks, no matter who it may be.” 

The man stopped then, glad to be finished presenting the harsh reality of the boy’s predicament. He avoided looking at the young man before him, knowing his words had to be hurting but needing Blaine to understand the seriousness of the situation. 

Almost as an afterthought he added, “Ultimately, with the way events played out, many believe that he did order the hit and in the long run it will probably strengthen his position amongst all the families.” 

When the boy still didn't respond the attorney continued tiredly, “Blaine your recovery needs to go smoothly. The few that know about you are more than capable of convincing your father that any instability you show is dangerous and that a psych hospital is the best, safest place to keep you.”

“Which could mean forever, given the circumstances,” the attorney finished with a resigned sigh.

“You mean my brothers,” Blaine said, his expression shifting between hurt and anger. 

The boy's observation caused the attorney to pause for a moment before he acquiesced with a slight nod. “Nick and Anthony are both invested in the family and I'm sure you're aware of their... opinions.”

“And Tommy?” Blaine asked cautiously, curious to know where his third brother had landed. 

“He believes you are dead. While I believe he would have been the first to support the decision to fake your death, your father chose not to bring him in on the arrangements. I would guess your father worried that his poor aptitude for business would ultimately cause him to comprise himself.”

“You mean my father didn't think Tommy could keep it a secret.” Blaine accused. 

“Possibly. Regardless, Tommy's youth and his... background, made him unsuitable for joining the family. Your father chose to not include him and shortly after your funeral gave Tommy his blessing to pursue an acting career in Los Angeles.”

“Great!” the teenager snorted. “Tommy gets to go to LA and Nick and Anthony want me dead. Wonderful!” Blaine said, sarcasm and hurt tainting his false enthusiasm. 

“Blaine, your brothers don't necessarily want you institutionalized, or dead. And they certainly won't disobey an order from your father,” the attorney interjected forcefully. “They just don't want you to be a continued distraction. Particularly, now that you're supposed to be dead and out of the picture.”

“You need to take back control of your life,” the attorney tried to assert, only to be met with a look of incredibility from Blaine, who, with a roll of his eyes clearly communicated that it might be an impossible task given he was trapped in a hospital bed. 

“I know it doesn't seem like it right now,” the attorney responded strongly. “But Blaine, you can rebuild your life. You can make it anything you want it to be. Don't let what's happened destroy you. Don't let it define you. You're worth more than that. You need to believe that.” 

The attorney watched Blaine after he finished his plea. He had said just about everything he had planned on saying but it didn't appear to have really broken through the boy's apathy. Instead, much of what he said just wounded the teenager further. 

The man had hoped the harsh truth might kindle a fire of resistance within that Blaine could use to energize his recovery. Instead, he seemed to be slipping away, the hurt of learning of his brothers' nefarious plans, pushing him back toward the fugue state he had been in earlier. 

Grasping at straws the man suddenly offered, “Do you know what your mother has been doing, since you died?”

Getting only a pained frown and a questioning raised eyebrow in response, he answered, pride coloring his voice, “She's been busy. She's trying to give your death meaning. Dominick DiNapoli is a name that has become synonymous with gay bashing awareness and anti-bulling in schools across the Tri-State.”

At this, Blaine turned to look at him fully, clearly incredulous. 

“Why so surprised?” the attorney asked smugly, relieved to see some interest from Blaine. “I told you the last time I was here she was speaking out publicly. Well, now she's gotten some momentum going in a movement that has needed a catalyst, which in this case, was your death.”

“That's...I can't believe...”Blaine began, clearly not quite knowing what to do with this revelation. 

The man continued with an edge of gossipy delight in his tone, “Although, your mother's campaign has conflicted with the 'Vincent DiNapoli is a tough son-of-a-bitch' persona your brothers have been trying to peddle within the families.” 

“And, as you can imagine your father would rather keep the family name out of it all. But, he's allowing your mother to do as she will.” 

The attorney added with insincere laughter in his tone, “It seems the other families believe he's just tolerating her behavior, believing that she is just an over-emotional woman mourning her son and that your father would rather let her do that - than have her find out the 'truth' - that he had you killed.” 

“Wow,” Blaine finally said after an awed-filled moment. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. 

The attorney gave the teenager a small smile. He could feel it, he had finally broken through. He hadn't been sure just what it would take, but now that he had truly gotten Blaine's attention he went in for the kill.

“Blaine, with all that your mother is doing to try to give your death purpose, do you think she would want you living like this? Wasting your days in a drugged stupor? Seeing you trapped in a mental institution after everything you've been through? Don't you think she'd rather you embrace the life you have before you and make the most it?” the attorney threw at the kid. 

“Don't you think her sacrifice – losing her only son – needs to be given purpose, too? She will never know what you become, but you will. So, make it something you know she would be proud of. Do it for her. Make her sacrifice count for something, just like she's trying to make your death count for something.”

By the time the attorney finished his plea, Blaine was unabashedly crying into his hospital sheet, awkwardly snagged around the casts covering his hands. The boy was shaking, trying to breathe through the swell of emotion that finally took him. It was with relief when the attorney pulled Blaine into his arms and slowly rubbed his back and letting him cry himself out. 

Eventually Blaine slowly pulled himself back together, shifting away from the man's arms. He was sniffling and was trying to blot his face dry with the edge of his sheet when the attorney handed him a box of tissues. 

“I'm going to go get some coffee and see if I can get you something, juice maybe?” the attorney offered as he left, leaving the young man to compose himself. 

Moments later he returned with his coffee, and a tray holding apple sauce, graham crackers and a box of juice. He slid the tray onto Blaine's side table without comment and calmly sat back into the visitors chair beside the boy's bed. He watched Blaine try to sit up higher in his hospital bed as he took a few sips of water and blew his nose a final time. 

More centered, Blaine looked up at the attorney and finally spoke, eyebrow raised, clearly skeptical “So you're from the neighborhood?”

The attorney chuckled. “That's what you latch on to after everything I just told you?” he threw back, enjoying the bit of humor and life Blaine was showing with his question.

“Well, you don't look or sound like any of the wise guys I've ever met,” Blaine threw back, with an amused disbelieving expression.

“Ha. Lot you know. Sometimes the best wise guys are the ones you don't recognize. Case in point - your father,” the attorney offered his amusement tapering at the end. 

Adding with a touch of playful defensiveness, “Besides, I'm not a wise guy. I'm an attorney.”

Blaine snorted, flashing a smile, before saying, “Like there's that big of a difference?”


	5. Guardians

Just as the elevator doors were about to close a hand stopped them and they receded. An older man wearing a white doctor's coat stepped in, glanced at the lone occupant within and said, “I'm glad I caught you. I need to speak with you about young Mr. Anderson.”

Receiving a slight nod and handshake with an introduction of “Richard McNulty,” the doctor pushed the 2nd floor button responded saying, “Keith Erickson. My office would probably be the best place for this conversation.”

Neither men spoke when the doors opened on the 2nd floor and they headed toward the doctor’s office. Stepping in, the doctor gestured to the chairs before his desk and then settled in his leather office chair. He took a moment before he began, regarding the attorney with a pensive expression, “It’s good of you to visit Blaine. I’m sure you know, given the circumstances, he doesn’t have any visitors. I take it you've been receiving the staff's reports?” the doctor began. 

“Yes.”

“It was surprising that after your initial visit Blaine remembered his name, family....his amnesia just seemed to disappear,” Erickson observed. 

“I'm given to understand that sometimes that happens in these sorts of cases,” McNulty offered cautiously.

“Yes, it does happen from time to time,” the doctor agreed in a neutral tone. Adding, with more force, “I have to ask, since your last visit sent him into to such a tailspin, did you discuss anything during this visit that you believe will further upset him?” 

“I don't believe so. I simply stopped by to give him a laptop and some music. I thought it might improve his spirits.”

“I see.”

“You know,” Erickson began conversationally, “Blaine's files were fairly thin when it came to background information. That concerned me, as there isn't anyone available to provide insight into his circumstances. It's difficult to treat a patient when you have so little to work from, particularly in traumatic injury and amnesia cases.”

“You were provided everything that was available.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” the doctor replied, with a thoughtful nod. 

“He hasn't been very forthcoming during his sessions,” the doctor explained. “Which led me to review his files again. I was hoping to find something – I not sure what, just something I could use in our sessions. Near the bottom of his first intake file I found some paperwork, from the transport that brought him in. It originated at O'Hare. Which was unusual.”

“It showed they picked him up at hanger 43. Which I’ve learned is dedicated to medical flights. Usually, organ transplants.”

There was the slightest shift in the attorney's expression for just a brief moment. Accepting that this was all the reaction he was going to receive Erickson pressed on. “Considering Blaine's file says he's from Chicago I thought this was odd, but I haven't said anything to him yet. I didn't want to press him for details about something he might find confusing.”

The man before the doctor cleared his throat and offered, “Blaine, was out of state when his injuries occurred. I felt it best that his treatment take place closer to home.”

“I see. Where exactly? It would be helpful to have the medical reports from his initial intake. Usually we receive the initial police reports as well when we treat this sort of trauma patient. Everything leading up to his arrival at our facility. They are something we usually receive when a patient is transferred to us, not just treatment summaries like those we received.”

The two men stared at one another until finally the doctor broke, sinking back into his chair, “I'm trying to treat Blaine but without his cooperation, I need someone to provide me with more details regarding his life, the events that led to his injuries, if I'm to provide appropriate treatment and help him.”

“I'm not sure what more you think I can offer. I'm the family's attorney.”

“The family's attorney. But someone who in just one visit was able to turn the boy into a shell of what he was just the day before. At the same time he was able to remember his name and mysteriously his amnesia disappeared. I don't know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it's destroyed whatever life he had in him before you showed up,” the doctor vehemently stated. 

Clearly uncomfortable, McNulty said, “I'm sorry to hear my visit took such a toll. I'm not sure what you think there is that I can tell you that might help.”

Fed up, Erickson glared at him asking, “Care to explain why a fourteen year old would need a new identity?” 

There was barely a shift in the attorney’s expression at the question. In an annoyed huff the doctor said, “No. I didn't think so. You're not going to tell me anything I might need to know to treat him, are you?” 

“I'm sure you're aware that I'm held to a similar standard as you are when discussing a client,” the attorney replied coolly. 

“Yes, Yes, of course. But, there are exceptions. Protecting your client only goes so far, if it’s detrimental to his health. Consulting during mental health treatment, particularly when it's in regards to a minor is fairly common practice. Especially since the boy doesn’t have anyone else who could be bothered to look after him. You just saw him, he's not doing well.” 

The doctor scrutinized the man before him, finally saying, “I rarely treat children long term. Once I do an initial assessment they are assigned to someone on staff. When I choose to take on a case, they are the most exceptional. Perks of being in charge you could say.”

“Do you know why I'm still handling Blaine's case, four weeks after his initial assessment? Because, I've treated a few head trauma patients over the years that had unexplained new identities. This is Chicago after all,” he added casually with a shrug, starring knowingly at the attorney.

“I've learned no matter how good a hospital is - the fewer people who realize that a patient is struggling with a new identity, the more likely it is that the patient will survive their stay as well as their transition back into society once they've left treatment.”

When the attorney still didn't respond the doctor sat forward and leaned over his desk, and said intensely, “And you need to be aware that even though he no longer needs the level of support the ICU offers, I've kept Blaine there to maintain a stable environment, which he desperately needs right now. But it also limits his exposure to a very few familiar caretakers, to protect him.”

“I believe my actions speak clearly. Now, I'm asking you, is there anything you can tell me that could make Blaine's treatment go smoother? And could possibly affect his safety over the long term?”

Under the doctor's demanding stare the attorney looked away and then back, finally offering, “I'd be willing to provide you with additional information, if you're willing to agree to some terms.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing I tell you gets written down, nor does anything you discuss with Blaine. You take extra precautions when you speak with him about anything I tell you so that confidences can be maintained. It is vital that the details I provide are never shared with anyone.”

“That is a request I can easily agree too,” the doctor confirmed.

With a nod the attorney leaned back further into his chair. “No one is looking for him. There's no reason anyone would. As the reports say, he really is just a boy that was nearly beaten to death because he went to a dance with another boy. And, he has just lost the only home and family he has ever known.” 

“As for what you should know, to make his treatment more successful... He used to be Dominick DiNapoli. Who is now legally dead. I’m sure you’ve heard the story about a gang attacking some gay kids and killing Vincent DiNapoli’s son in New York a few months ago?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow but nodded gravely, waiting for the attorney to continue. 

“I never met the boy before last month. So everything I know about him is second hand. From what I understand he was very close to his mother, but had a distant relationship with his father. Within his extended family he was either deeply loved, or horribly bullied. It's fairly obvious now that while his parents, grandparents and others sheltered him, Blaine's brothers and many male relatives tormented him incessantly. In part, probably because his mother's Asian descent made him ineligible to be part of the greater 'family'.” 

“He has 3 older brothers. Nick and Anthony are from their father's first marriage and are more than twenty years Blaine's senior. They weren't close to the boy and tormented or ignored him in turns. The third son, Tommy is eight years older than Blaine and was essentially raised by Blaine's mother, when he was brought into the home shortly after his mother died of a drug overdose. Apparently, he and Blaine did have a sibling type relationship. They also share a talent for music and performance and constantly rivaled one another for familial attention.” 

“As for other details....Blaine's attackers were cousins of his of a similar age. Intolerance for certain life styles is deeply ingrained within the family. His father decided that in order to protect Blaine from further threats it would be best if he were permanently removed from the family. A very generous, private trust has been setup on his behalf. He will lack for nothing.”

The doctor huffed at that last comment but kept his peace, as he needed to hear all the information the attorney could provide. 

“Today when I spoke with Blaine I encouraged him to think of his mother and try to build a life that would make her proud. I believe that his mother is probably the key to his recovery.” 

“I will share with you, as I did with him, that I am worried that any recommendation of the need for a psychiatric care facility for his full recovery in future medical reports could put his future, if not the rest of his life, in jeopardy.” 

“Blaine’s brothers would perceive this as a weakness. He’s already a threat that they have difficulty tolerating. As they previously proposed using a psychiatric facility, it would not be a stretch for them to permanently institutionalize him if they felt it necessary. As long as Blaine's existence remains unknown, and he does not demonstrate instability, he well be safe,” McNulty explained. 

“From my perspective, acting as his guardian, he needs to accept that life as he knew it, is gone. He needs to accept that and build anew.”

“I really do want the best for Blaine. If there is something he needs that I can provide, you only need ask,” McNulty finished.

The attorney had paused in his explanation and added, “I do appreciate the personal concern you're taking in his case.”

The doctor stared at the man, evaluating what he had heard, weighing the words against what he had observed in the young man, during the past few weeks therapy sessions. Eventually nodding his head, accepting that the information provided was the truth.

Leaning forward Erickson said anxiously, “You need to understand that I won’t be able to change my recommendations for additional psychological treatment if it’s warranted. With the head trauma Blaine sustained, I would be very surprised if he didn’t have at least some long term effects.”

McNulty frowned in concern, “You said that in your initial assessment that brain damage was a possibility but you hadn’t brought it up since so I hadn’t been concerned with the possibility. What exactly are we looking at here?”

“It’s really too early to say. Blaine could be perfectly fine. He’s young. Which means his brain is still developing. His injuries weren’t as severe as some I’ve seen so his youth plays in his favor. The brain can heal like any other part of the body. We just don’t fully understand it yet, so we can’t truly predict specific outcomes.”

“But you have some idea, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Yes. Blaine’s injuries were to his frontal and temporal lobes. Everything from his personality and emotions to his concentration and problem solving abilities could be affected. We obviously need to do testing once he’s further along in his recovery and chances are he will need some treatment. Whether it be medication to stabilize his moods or special education classes. My main concern is his emotional and reasoning functions. Obviously his speech seems fine and his motor functions are coming on line as he heals. What concerns me is that patients often exhibit frustration and anger later, once they’re further along in the healing process, when problems in areas they hadn’t had difficulties in before, suddenly appear. 

“Right now Blaine is in a severely depressed state. Whether it is solely from the traumatic experience he is recovering from or if it is a chemical imbalance due to injuries has yet to be determined. PTSD presents with the similar symptoms as head trauma or he could be suffering from both. That’s another reason why a stable, calm environment is so important for him right now.”

“But he’ll heal in time?” the attorney asked worriedly.

“He will. With treatment. Like I said, he’s young and it doesn’t appear that his injuries were as severe as they could have been. It’s possible he’ll have a larger emotional swing or that he could be more reserved and less in touch with his emotions then previously. His speech doesn’t seem to be affected and he appears to be able to read. Problem solving might be an issue down the road but he seems to be able to reason well enough. If we’re really lucky he won’t have any long term effects at all. The next best hope is he might need to take some mood stabilizing medication. Not great, but still successful treatment in many instances. It will just be an unknown until Blaine heals further and we can do a full assessment.”

“This doesn’t sound like the kind of thing that would warrant special psychiatric care,” McNulty observed.

“No. If it is as mild as I hope it will be, it won’t. He might simply need to check in with a doctor every few months, once we’ve confirmed his normal baseline. Although I would recommend he receive continued counseling. He’ll need the emotional support when he transitions out of the hospital and later out of rehab. No matter how well he recovers we can’t underplay the emotional upheaval he will be dealing with. You’re asking a lot of a fourteen year old boy,” Erickson finished with a grimace.

McNulty shifted in his seat uncomfortably before asking, “And when he leaves here? What do you recommend? I had been considering sending him to Andover at the beginning of the school year.”

“Andover? Well!” the doctor exclaimed in mild surprise.

“Can’t get better than that. But I have to wonder if it’s a good fit for Blaine now,” he cautioned. 

“There are other schools that are feeders for the Ivy Leagues if that’s what you are looking for but aren’t quite the pressure cooker that Andover might be for him. I think you need to take into account that Blaine has lost everything when you start looking at schools to send him to. He’s going to need a supportive environment that he can rebuild himself in. You’re also going to need to consider his sexuality when you look at schools. A no bullying policy – that is actually enforced, would be at the top of my list. I don’t know enough about Andover or any of the other boarding schools you are considering but there are some fine schools here in the Midwest with excellent reputations that might fit Blaine’s needs better.”

“If you have a recommendation I’d be happy for it,” McNulty offered agreeably, adding, “I simply want him to have the best education possible and since they come so highly recommended I hadn’t looked further.”

“Understandable. At least Blaine has that going for him. The choices you make for him these next four years are going to be crucial. But if you want to help him recover fully emotional support is going to be paramount in all the decisions you make going forward.”

 

It was from that point that the two men became Blaine’s silent guardians. They consulted with one another regularly to ensure that the young man was in the best possible place he could be, receiving the best care and in some instances maneuvering behind the scenes to make his life just a little bit easier.


	6. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine starts to see who the new him is.

He looked like his uncle Carmine, who was 65 and used to box. His nose was flatter. So were his cheekbones. His jaw was just as square, but softer in a way he couldn’t quite identify. His eyebrows were the same though. A DiNapoli signature feature that he didn’t think any amount of plastic surgery could change. Not that he planned on doing anything about them. If they were the only thing he got to keep, then so be it. His hair was basically gone. Cut off for surgery and only now growing back to cover the rickrack of scars his stitches had left. He had a feeling that at some point he’d have to find a new look as his curls would be too easily identifiable. 

He felt like someone had erased his face. It was all still there only less delineated. He hadn’t noticed initially. At first it didn’t occur to him to ask for a mirror and he wasn’t actually making trips to the bathroom. Later, it took so much effort to stand and keep nurses out, who were hoovering outside the door, looking in the mirror just wasn’t a priority. But one day he looked up from washing his hands and caught his reflection in the mirror. It was jarring. He was so thin he bordered on emaciated. His skin was nearly translucent he was so pale. He had teeth missing, scars in his hairline and deep bruising under his eyes. It actually took him a moment to realize the ugly wreck he was seeing in the mirror was who he was now. Blaine Anderson. It certainly wasn’t Dominick DiNapoli whose nonna used to tell him how pretty he was when she played with his curls. He had hobbled back to bed in momentary disbelief. Bitterness over took the numbness he had briefly been feeling as he couldn’t help thinking that if he had to have plastic surgery they could have at least asked and made him better looking, not ugly. But, he used to be the spitting image of his father. While no one had said anything about plastic surgery as part of his new identity it made sense it was part of the package. He assumed McNulty or Erickson forgot to mention it. 

He was irrationally tempted to call McNulty and demand that the lawyer tell him why they had done it. But he already knew the answer. It was for his protection, or more likely, for his father’s. No one could ever find out that his son was still alive and that Vincent DiNapoli had actually spirited him away, only to allow everyone to believe he had actually put a hit on his own son because he was gay. It was just another safety precaution to make sure no one ever learned the truth.

Later during his session with Dr. Erickson, Blaine asked why no one had mentioned the plastic surgery during the many meetings he had been subject to regarding his treatments. 

“Blaine. We discussed how portions of your face had to be extensively restructured. That’s why you’re still getting dental implants. We needed to wait until your jaw and face had healed enough before they could be inserted,” Dr. Erickson explained patiently, not sure why this was suddenly a concern.

“You mean you didn’t make me look like this on purpose?” 

“Look like what? What are you talking about?”

“Plastic surgery. I don’t look like I used to,” Blaine said flatly as if it were completely obvious.

Erickson paused for a moment before saying, “All of your surgeries were necessary. None of them were for purely cosmetic purposes. The damage to your face was considerable. You know your nose, and cheek bones were essentially rebuilt.”

Blaine’s brows scrunched in frustration. “So you mean I look different because it just worked out that way. You didn’t give me plastic surgery just to make sure I don’t look like my dad anymore?”

Erickson answered gently, suddenly understanding, “No Blaine. No one did anything on purpose, other than try to heal you. If you look different it’s because of your injuries. While you did have plastic surgery, it wasn’t for purely cosmetic purposes, but to ensure your bones and faces healed correctly. Without it you would never have healed properly.”

The young man sitting across from him relaxed slightly back into his chair with a quiet, “Oh.”

“Does your appearance concern you?”

“I just…I don’t look right,” the teenager mumbled.

“Blaine, after what you’ve been through, it would be difficult to return to your past appearance. I’m sure your surgeons did everything they could to make sure you healed fully but also retained your original appearance as much as possible. Do you really look that different?”

“I look like my uncle Carmine,” the boy scuffed.

“Which isn’t something you like?”

“Well considering he’s a retired boxer, no, I can’t say I really want to look like him.”

“Alright,” Erickson said with an understanding nod. “But have you considered that your appearance right now isn’t how you’ll look in just a few weeks? Once you get the rest of your implants and you put on some of the weight you’ve lost and your hair grows back. Once you’ve recovered and finished with your physical therapy you won’t look the way you do right now. You just need to give yourself time to heal.” 

Time to heal. It was going to take months. He had graduated to robotic like hand and finger braces on both of his hands in an effort to begin his physical therapy. He still had his cervical collar for his neck and back and would need it for months to come. He really wasn’t happy with who this ‘Blaine’ person was at the moment. 

Looking in the mirror had become a slight preoccupation. Now he looked more like his older brothers, Nick and Anthony who emulated the typical larger featured, swarthy, dark Italian. He used to have at least a passing resemblance to Tommy who had the finest, most chiseled features of all of the brothers, having taken after his fair, more delicate mother. Blaine had always been a balanced mixture of his Italian father’s features and his mother’s softer Filipino visage and curly hair. Now the balance had been lost and if anything he thought he looked even more like he belonged to the family then he did before. Only now he looked like he had been in a few street fights, like his cousins and uncles.


End file.
